Breathe
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: A Princeton-Plainsboro doctor is admitted as House's patient. Rated for drug references.
1. Change of Pace

_**Author's Note:**_I developed this idea before I saw the episode "Last Resort" so I take no reponsibility for my psychic powers. I'm also not a doctor, so I did my best with the medical stuff.

_**Disclaimer:**_I don't own House, MD and I'm not making money off of this. All original characters and situations are my intellectual property.

* * *

"No," Cuddy said, shaking her head, looking annoyed.

"I'll give you Thirteen for the entire week," House countered, tapping his cane on the floor.

"House, no," Cuddy snapped. "You can't trade Doctor Hadley's time off for you own. Besides, where would you go? I know you don't go visit your mother. You're scheduled to work Christmas in the clinic. End of story."

"I need a day off," House replied.

"You have the whole weekend following that off. Drop it. I'm not giving you an out. You've had the past three Christmases off; time to pull your weight."

House made an impatient gesture at his leg, indicating he was incapable of pulling said weight, and Cuddy rolled her eyes.

"No!" she said, her voice mingling with the sudden sound of her office phone. She glared at House, brown eyes flashing, and picked up the receiver.

"This isn't over," House promised.

"Yes, it is," she mouthed, then turned her attention away from him. "Cuddy." House tapped his cane impatiently on the floor, annoyed with the interruption because he suspected it might actual derail her. And he'd been starting to wear her down. He could always tell, when her eyes glinted like that.

He stopped in mid-motion, his cane suspended a few centimeters above the ground when Cuddy sat down abruptly, the colour draining from her face and her right hand tightening so much on the receiver that her knuckles went white.

"What?" she whispered, then paused, licking her lips. "When?"

House set his cane back down silently, his irritation forgotten, waiting for Cuddy to hang up. She was staring blankly at her desk, not really seeing it, nodding slowly.

"All right," she whispered. "How long? Okay, I'll be right down."

House raised an eyebrow, waiting, but Cuddy sat silently for a moment, before pushing herself abruptly to her feet and striding around the desk, toward the door.

"What's going on?" House snapped and she spun back to face him, seeming almost surprised by his presence. House narrowed his eyes at her; he'd never seen her so white and shaken, even a few weeks ago, when the gunman had taken half the waiting room hostage in her office.

"One of our doctors was shot in a bank robbery in Edison. They're bringing her here. Now."

"Who?" House demanded.

"Sarah Reilly. One of my surgeons."

"Don't know her," House commented.

"You wouldn't," Cuddy muttered.

"Looks like someone will get Christmas off."

Cuddy grasped the handle of her office door and yanked it open.

"If you don't shut up, you're fired," she snapped and stalked out. House blinked, taken aback slightly. He'd heard the threat before, countless times, but had never heard any conviction behind it. He bit down on a retort, thinking that Cuddy would actually follow through this one time, and watched her go.

"Who the hell robs a bank in Edison?" he muttered to himself when she was out of earshot. Then he shrugged, glanced around her recently redecorated office, and limped out to the elevator that would take him up to his own office.

* * *

Cuddy reached the emergency room as the ambulance skidded to a halt and cut its sirens. The pulsating red lights flashed through the glass doors, illuminating the floor in short bursts. Cameron was already there with a team of nurses, hurrying to the door as the paramedics unloaded their patient, trying not to slip in the slick skiff of snow that covered the ground outside. Cuddy ignored the other emergency patients who were staring at the scene and pushed through the waiting area. A gust of cold air blew in when the doors slid open to admit the paramedics and Cuddy winced, forcing herself to draw back enough to let them pass. She closed her eyes as they wheeled in the gurney; Reilly was unconscious, her lower left leg covered in blood, her body slack and unresponsive.

"What happened?" Cuddy demanded as Cameron and the nurses went to work assessing the damage.

"Shot in the left leg," one of the paramedics, a young blond man, replied. "Through and through as far as we can tell; looks like it broke the fibula and tore up her muscles on the way out."

"Someone's already done some work on this," Cameron said, glancing up.

The paramedic nodded.

"She had one of the other hostages do some first aid on it while we were trying to get in."

"She was held hostage?" Cameron demanded. Cuddy closed her eyes; sometimes New Jersey was just too much to bear. How many more doctors of hers were going to be held accountable to gun totting maniacs?

"About twenty people were, for about half an hour. The cops took the guy down."

"She was conscious," Cuddy said, her eyes darting back to Reilly's form. Unconscious, the woman looked peaceful. Her face, almost lost under the oxygen mask, was expressionless, and her light brown hair was escaping from the French braid that Cuddy had rarely seen her without.

"Yeah, that's the problem," the paramedic replied. Cameron looked up again, pausing.

"She was in shock but responsive and pretty alert when we got to her," the paramedic continued. Cuddy finally noticed that the name of his uniform said "Davids" and that the other paramedic had disappeared, probably back into the ambulance to move it out of the way. "She even asked specifically that we bring her here because she works here. She lost consciousness on the way over. We've been trying to revive her and we can't."

Cuddy closed her eyes momentarily, and when she opened them, she saw Cameron staring at her. The younger woman's jaw was set and her face was pale.

"She needs surgery," the younger doctor said. "We need to repair this leg."

"And we can't pump her full of anesthetic without knowing why she's out," Cuddy replied. Cameron nodded tersely, her blond hair shifting in its loose ponytail, threatening to spill out.

"It could just be shock," Cameron said. Davids shook his head.

"Not the way she went," he said. "She was good until about halfway here, then she went groggy and we lost her." He snapped his fingers for emphasis. "And she'd been injured for half an hour and was still conscious, and was able to instruct someone how to treat her."

"Did she hit her head at all?" Cameron demanded.

"No, we asked her when we were loading her. Only the leg."

Cameron leaned over Reilly's face, frowning in concentration, one hand on the other woman's chest.

"She's breathing all right," she said, then paused to take Reilly's pulse. "Pulse is strong."

"Get her into a room," Cuddy snapped, suddenly acutely aware of the other patients and personnel around them. The nurses nodded and took hold of the stretcher, wheeling it away, Cameron keeping pace with a quick stride. Cuddy turned back to the paramedic.

"Get her signed in," she ordered and he nodded. She touched his upper arm briefly in a gesture of thanks and then turned away, pulling out her cell phone as she strode after her doctors.

* * *

The buzz of his cell phone in his coat pocket distracted House and he dropped the tennis ball he'd been idly throwing at his office ceiling. He swore under his breath and pulled the phone out, saw that it was Cuddy, and raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah?" he said, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Get your team and get down to the ER now," Cuddy said, her voice firm. "Reilly's your patient now."

House drew his feet from his desk and sat up straight.

"What?" he asked.

"Now," Cuddy said and hung up. House pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a second before swearing with feeling. He flipped the phone shut, slid it back into his pocket and grabbed his cane, standing and limping toward the door to his outer office. House pulled it open and glared at the nearly empty room. Hadley looked up from whatever it was she'd been reading, slightly surprised by his abrupt appearance.

"Where the hell is everyone?" House demanded.

"Lunch, I think," Hadley replied.

"But you're not."

"I just got in," she said.

"Well call them and meet me in the ER. We have a patient."

Hadley stood immediately, fishing out her cell phone.

"What?" She asked. "Who?"

"Sarah Reilly. She's one of our surgeons, apparently."

Hadley's face went blank with surprise.

"What's wrong with her?" she asked.

"No idea. I'll be downstairs. Be quick."

He shut the door on her shocked expression and limped out his office, frowning to himself.

* * *

Cuddy was waiting for him in the emergency room and beckoned to him before disappearing behind a curtain. House limped over as quickly as he could, ducking in through the break in the curtain and raised his eyebrows at the amount of people crowded into the tiny space. Cuddy was standing beside Reilly's bed with her arms crossed, her expression strained. Cameron was checking on Reilly's obviously injured leg, while a nurse was cleaning it off as best she could. Chase was there, too, looking shocked and exhausted.

A moment later, before House could ask what was going on, his three fellows slipped into the already overcrowded space. House glanced at them, then at Cuddy, raising an eyebrow, but she didn't notice his expression or didn't acknowledge it.

"She was shot," House said flatly. Now that he saw Reilly, he recognized her vaguely, mostly from the French braid. He couldn't remember having ever seen her without it, but it was the only thing about her that stood out in his memory.

Cuddy nodded, an almost mechanical movement, then visibly forced herself to pull together and looked up.

"She was conscious when the paramedics picked her up, and alert and responsive. She reported no head injuries to them, just the leg injury. But she lost consciousness on the way here and they weren't able to revive her. We haven't either."

"Could just be shock," Kutner said.

"If it was shock, we'd have been able to wake her," Cameron said, without bothering to look up. "She needs to have surgery on this leg. We can't wait much longer."

"You can't put her under like this," Hadley said.

"We know," Cameron replied.

"Quit arguing and do a local," House said. Cameron did look up at him, raising her eyebrows, but Chase nodded.

"We do it all the time for C-sections. And they're conscious," he said.

"Can you do it?" Cuddy asked, looking at him.

Chase's eyes widened and he shook his head.

"No," he said. "No. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Cuddy replied.

"That's right: you shouldn't feel bad that you can't do your job," House said.

"I work with her everyday!" Chase snapped. "At least I know my limits!"

"We'll get someone else," Cuddy interjected, shooting House a warning glare. "Your job isn't her surgery, House. Find out what's wrong with her."

"Then do the surgery fast," House replied. "I can't diagnose a patient without the patient."

"You'll get the details of everything we know so far," Cuddy said. "Start with that. You'll have her as soon as possible."


	2. What You Don't Know Can Kill You

House scrawled the word "symptoms" across the white board, dragged a black line under it, then wrote "shot" and "unconscious" under it. He snapped the lid back on the marker and turned to face his team.

"Forty-five year old woman, also happens to be a surgeon, also happens to be a surgeon _here_, get shots in the leg and loses consciousness in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. All attempts to revive her have failed. By all accounts, she's in good health, exercises regularly, doesn't smoke, doesn't drink too much, actually goes for a yearly physical unlike the rest of us. Since the bullet hit her leg and not her head, we can assume that's not why she's unconscious. Loss of blood isn't a factor; she had one of the other lucky hostages do first aid on her leg. Looks like doctors make good hostages for crazy gun nuts," he shot a glance at Hadley, who rolled her eyes. "First person to say it's shock or a head injury is fired. Go."

"A drug reaction," Taub said. "They gave her morphine in the ambulance."

"Which she's since been taken off of," House replied. "Next."

"What if the morphine reacted to another medication?" Hadley asked.

"According to her file, she's not taking anything."

"She could be taking something we don't know about," Kutner said. House unstoppered the marker again and wrote "drugs" on the white board.

"So our patient's a drug addict," House commented, turning back.

"I didn't say that-" Kutner started.

"Are you afraid to suggest she might be, because she works here? Or because she's a doctor?"

"I just don't think we should jump to conclusions," Kutner replied, shaking his head, tapping the open file in front of him. "She's in good health. If she were a drug addict, there'd be signs."

"Unless she's really good at hiding them," House said.

"You assume that everyone has deep-seated psychological problems," Hadley said, frowning and tapping her pencil against her open file.

"No, I assume everyone has secrets," House contradicted. "Because everyone _does_ have secrets. And she's a doctor. She would know how to hide symptoms from the rest of us. Professional women are one of the highest risk group for methamphetamine addiction."

"So now she's a meth-head?" Hadley demanded.

"I didn't say she was a meth-head," House snapped back. "I said professional women are one of the highest risk groups. She's a professional woman; that puts her in that category."

"I just don't think-"

"We can't base our diagnosis on your hunches," House interrupted. "We have one symptom: she's unconscious. Since that doesn't narrow it down much, we'll look at everything."

"What if it's not her head, but her brain?" Foreman interjected, leaning forward, resting his hands on the table, fingers interlaced.

"He speaks!" House rejoiced, then turned to the white board and scribbled "brain injury".

"She could have had a stroke or an aneurism," Foreman continued, ignoring House's outburst. "Whatever this is, it probably has no relation to the leg injury."

"I agree," House replied. "She was shot in the leg and she was conscious when the medics picked her up. It's too soon for infection or blood poisoning. But that leaves us with a whole host of other tantalizing problems. We have the obvious, so let's start with the obvious. Kutner, find out where she lives and check her house for drugs or other toxins. Foreman, whenever they're done with her in surgery, draw some blood and rule out any kind of infection. Taub and Thirteen, when Foreman's done drawing blood, do an MRI of her brain. Let's figure out what she doesn't have."

He paused when his cell phone rang and flipped it open.

"House. Yeah? Yeah. Good."

He flipped it shut again and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Chase says they'll be done with her in under an hour. Through and through with the bullet, transverse fracture of the mid-shaft fibula and moderate damage to the lateral fibular muscles. No complications from the gun shot injury."

"I thought Chase wasn't doing the surgery," Foreman asked.

"It's a teaching hospital," House said. "We have these great observation theaters for our operating rooms. Apparently he can't operate on someone he knows, but he can watch."

Foreman rolled his eyes and gave his head a shake, but forbore comment.

"Well?" House asked, smacking his cane against one of the table legs for emphasis. "You all have work to do. Go do it so we can find out that we're wrong and move onto the next thing."

* * *

House paced back and forth across his outer office, tapping the marker against his chin. He paused when the door opened, then resumed his pacing when Wilson came in.

"I heard you were taking care of Doctor Reilly," Wilson said, circling the table, then leaning against it.

"Word travels fast, but technically not true right now. At the moment, she's under the expert care of Doctor Carmichael."

"Something tells me that an emergency surgeon isn't the one diagnosing her," Wilson replied, crossing his arms.

"Course not," House muttered. "Although I'd be doing a better job at it if you weren't here bugging me. What do you want?"

"I want you to figure out what's wrong with her," Wilson said.

"That's my job," House snapped back.

"This time it's different," Wilson replied. "Treat it that way."

"Why, because she works here?"

"That's exactly why, and you know it," Wilson answered. "She's a doctor, House. She's one of ours."

"So you're suggesting that I give her better treatment than my other patients?"

"I'm suggesting that you take it more seriously. And that you don't screw it up. Because if you do, I don't think Cuddy's going to be in a very forgiving mood."

House stopped his pacing and turned to face Wilson.

"Don't be glib about it," Wilson warned. "That's all I'm saying."

"You know Reilly?" House demanded.

"Yeah, I do. She's a damn good surgeon, House. We're lucky to have her. We need to keep her."

"Uh-huh," House said slowly. "When did she start working here?"

Wilson shrugged, looking a bit puzzled by the shift in subject.

"I'm not sure," he said. "Ten, twelve years ago, at least. I think we hired her right out of her residency." He paused, then comprehension dawned on his face. "Don't you _dare_. You _know_ who the surgeons were on your case. Even if she had operated on you, it's no excuse to treat her differently!"

"She's my patient," House snapped.

"Damn right!" Wilson snapped back. "And you were never hers, House! That was ten years ago, and this is now! You can't throw this in Cuddy's face! Whatever grudge you're carrying about your damn leg has nothing to do with Reilly. She isn't some pawn in some revenge fantasy."

"Just how well do you know this woman?" House asked.

"Well enough to like her and know she doesn't deserve this crap from you. Do your job, House. Take up whatever resentment you have about your leg with someone who deserves it. _Later_. Now is _not_ the time."

Wilson pushed himself to his feet and strode out, shutting the door a little harder than necessary on his way out. House stared at the door for a moment, then limped over to the wall and switched the lights on. The short winter day was already vanishing, and the low hanging clouds made it even darker.

He snapped the lid off the marker and drew a long horizontal line across the white board on the wall. Above it, he scrawled "Reilly" and then made a few short vertical dashes through the horizontal line. Below the first one, he wrote "shot in bank robbery". Then "out in ambulance", then "admitted & surgery w/local". He stood back, staring at it for a moment, but it offered him no more answers than he already had, which was nothing.

Sighing, he tossed the marker on the table and limped out to find out where Doctor Sarah Reilly's office was.

* * *

"All right, on three," Foreman said. "One, two, three, lift!"

Taub and Hadley slid Reilly from the gurney to the MRI bed as Foreman steadied her injured leg. The wound had been repaired and stitched shut and her left leg had been encased in a robo boot that ended at her mid-thigh.

"Thanks," Taub said as Hadley eased the oxygen tubes from Reilly's face. She leaned down and listened to the other doctor's breathing for a moment, then nodded.

"I'll be in the lab if you need me," Foreman said and left. Hadley adjusted the other woman's position on the bed somewhat and Taub shook his head.

"I'd tell her to lie still, but under the circumstances…"

"That's not funny," Hadley snapped. "Have a little respect."

"Hey, hey, I was kidding," Taub said, holding up his hands as they made their way into the control room.

"Would you joke like that if it was one of our male doctors?"

"You think this has something to do with sexism?" Taub demanded. "Look, just because House suggested drugs–"

"And just because she's a professional woman doesn't make her a meth-head!" Hadley retorted.

"We don't _know_ what's wrong with her. There's no point in limiting our options. And yes, I would have said the same thing if it had been one of the male doctors. Forget what House said about the drugs; we need to see if it's her brain."

Hadley nodded curtly and settled into one of the chairs.

"Putting her in," she said, as she let the computer maneuver the bed part way into the MRI machine, so that Reilly's head, neck, and shoulders were blocked from view. "Good to go."

"All right, here we go," Taub said. They sat back and waited for the images to process, Hadley tapping the fingers of her right hand absently against the back of her left hand. Taub leaned forward as the images came up and began scanning through them slowly. Hadley wheeled her chair a bit closer, examining the output with a frown.

"No indication of any blood clots," she said. "All the cranial arteries look clear."

Taub nodded.

"I'm not seeing any damage associated with a stroke, either. I'm not seeing any damage at all, actually."

"No sign of any tumours," Hadley said.

"Unless its on the spinal cord," Taub suggested.

Hadley nodded.

"Go deeper."

"Come on, Reilly, help us out here," Taub muttered under his breath.

"Wait, stop!" Hadley said, raising a hand quickly. "What's that?"

Taub paused, frowning at the images, moving up and down slowly. He squinted, trying to see what Hadley had spotted.

"Looks like damage to her hypothalamus," he said slowly. Beside him, Hadley nodded. It was difficult to see, but it was there.

"How did that happen?" Hadley muttered, shaking her head. "We know she didn't have a head injury, and something that serious would be caused by more than a simple fall."

"It doesn't have to be a result of being shot," Taub said. "This could be something she sustained earlier and it's just triggering now. Foreman was right: this could be completely unrelated."

Hadley sighed, raking a hand through her hair.

"Too bad we can't wake her up and ask her what happened."

Taub nodded.

"At least we have the what, if not the how. Let's get her back to her room and tell House."

* * *

House waited impatiently as the security guard opened Reilly's office. The man gave him a warning look as House limped in.

"I won't steal anything. Promise. Unless there's something valuable," he said, and swung the door shut behind him, flicking on the light. It was smaller than his office, but nowhere near as cluttered. The desk was set up at a ninety-degree angle to the door, and backed by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. House suspected that all of Reilly's books would be in perfect alphabetical order, but a quick glance told him that – surprisingly – he was wrong. He reassessed his initial opinion of the office; Reilly was neat without being obsessive, and after he'd had a moment to take in the new surroundings, he saw that some of the books were pulled out slightly further than the others and that there was a scatter of pens and a few papers on the desk. At the far end of the room, near the window, which was shaded by vertical blinds, were three low backed armchairs and a small round table with an abandoned coffee mug on it.

House moved behind the desk and sat down, scowling. Her chair was better than his. He relaxed back into it, wondering if he could get Cuddy to buy him a new one, then began pulling open drawers. There were no surprises there; office supplies, papers, two tins of instant French vanilla coffee mix in one. One of the tins was almost empty, the other was unopened. He shut the drawer and looked at the desk top, then picked up a framed photograph that looked like Reilly and a young man with curly light brown hair. He pulled the photograph out of the frame over and read "Sarah and Josh, Vermont, '06". House frowned; according to Reilly's personnel file she had no children and wasn't married. He put the picture back and rooted around her desk drawers for anything else, but came up empty.

Pushing himself to his feet, he checked the file cabinet to find it locked, and pocked around the bookshelves and the sitting area. He picked up the coffee mug and sniffed it, but it had obviously been washed before it had been put there. House sat down in one of the chairs with a disapproving frown; if Reilly was going to present them with a mystery illness, the least she could do was leave them some clues.

His cell phone interrupted the silence and he flipped it open.

"House."

"It's Foreman. I just finished running her blood tests. I've got nothing."

House repressed a sigh; he wasn't surprised, but he was irritated. A quiet beep distracted him.

"Hang on. Call waiting." He switched lines.

"It's Taub. We have something. She's got damage to her hypothalamus."

"Brain injury," House said. "Goody. Meet me upstairs."

* * *

Cuddy looked up sharply when House stepped into Reilly's nearly silent room. He paused, looking not at the other doctor, but at the second woman who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, an annoyed expression on her face. She looked enough like Reilly for House to suspect they were related, but she was older, her hair mostly grey where Reilly's was still brown, and her face pinched and somewhat wrinkled where Reilly's was smooth, although that may have been a function of Reilly's unconscious state. House put her at least five years older than Reilly. Her brown eyes regarded House with suspicion and she pursed her lips almost thoughtfully.

Reilly herself was back on her oxygen, but they had removed the full mask and given her some nasal tubes, since she was breathing well enough on her own. Her unconscious state was not yet deep enough that they had to intubate her. House cast a critical, experienced eye over her monitors and noted that her pulse was strong and steady, if a bit slower than normal.

"What did you find?" Cuddy demanded.

"Who are you?" House asked, ignoring Cuddy, addressing the stranger.

"Emily Bishop," the woman asked. "Sarah's sister. What the hell is wrong with her? And who are you?"

"Doctor House, Sarah's attending physician. We know what's wrong, but not why it's wrong. Our MRI revealed that she has damage to her hypothalamus. That's that part of the brain-"

"Don't patronize me, Doctor," Bishop snapped, stopping House short. "I'm a dentist; I know the language."

House glanced at Cuddy, who had covered her mouth with one hand and looked horrified at his announcement. But Bishop didn't, he noted. She looked, if possible, more annoyed, as if the diagnosis was inconvenient to her.

"Sarah was in a bad car accident when she was twelve," Bishop snapped. "_That's_ how she damaged her hypothalamus. The thing is, her doctors tested the hell out of her back then, and she has no adverse affects from it. She's been fine ever since."

Cuddy sank into a chair, looking defeated, and House suppressed a groan and a curse. He was back to square one. He would have been, anyway, if he'd been able to get a medical history from the unconscious Reilly. And he needed her old medical records, which the hospital didn't have.

"I'm going to send Doctor Foreman down here to get a history from you," he said nodding at Bishop.

"I'm not my sister's keeper," Bishop shot back. "Why would I know anything?"

"You knew about her brain injury," House pointed out, letting the irritation show in his voice.

"Yes, because she was twelve when it happened, and I was seventeen. Now she's forty-five. I'm not responsible for knowing what's wrong with her. That's your job."

"Maybe if you paid a bit more attention, we could figure out what was wrong with her," House retorted. "She's your sister."

Bishop shrugged.

"But not my responsibility."

House turned on his heel, striding to the door as fast he could manage with his limp. Cuddy stood up, holding up her hands.

"Anything you could tell us would be useful," she said diplomatically to Bishop.

"And think real hard," House added, pausing at the door. "Because what we don't know about your sister might kill her."


	3. Where Do We Go From Here

House bounced his ball against his office wall, catching it out of habit and throwing it again. They had nothing on Reilly, their one possible lead a dead end, and no other indications of anything else that could be wrong with her. House wasn't desperate enough – yet – to think that Reilly's old brain injury, which had never affected her before, had flared up unexpectedly and inexplicably. If it hadn't affected her at all during her adolescence, it certainly wasn't troubling her now, thirty-three years later.

He caught the ball again and lobbed it back at the wall.

Foreman's blood tests had come up all negative. Nothing in her blood indicated drugs, legal or otherwise, and there was no trace of infection. Foreman had tested for iron deficiency and poisoning, as well as vitamin B-12 deficiency, hypothyroidism, and everything else he could think of.

Kutner had come back with nothing but a bottle of multivitamins that the lab was testing for any kind of contamination. House glared blankly at the wall as he tossed the ball against it again, then caught it with a satisfying slap in his palm. They had nothing, nothing but an unconscious doctor.

He caught the ball again as the door from his outer office opened and Foreman stepped in.

"What now?" he asked.

"Do an angiogram, then x-ray her lungs. Get Taub to help you. Kutner can keep going over the history the bitchy sister gave us."

Foreman raised his eyebrows, looking skeptical.

"You think we'll get anything?" he asked.

"Nope," House said, tossing the ball again. "But it's better than sitting here being useless. Which we are."

Foreman sighed and then nodded reluctantly. He withdrew and House tossed the ball one last time then caught it and plunked it on his desk. He grabbed his cane and stood, limping out of the office. He made his way to Reilly's room, where he found Cuddy still sitting and waiting, but not Bishop.

"Where's the sister?" he asked.

Cuddy looked up, her expression weary and distant. She waved a hand vaguely.

"She left after giving Foreman the history," she replied, her voice flat and defeated. "She said she had to get home to Philly. We could call her when anything happened."

House raised his eyebrows, admitting his surprise even to himself.

"I have a new theory," House commented. "She's faking it to avoid spending Christmas with her sister."

Cuddy smirked and almost chuckled, but the sound fell short as her eyes slipped back to the unconscious doctor on the bed.

"Loving family," Cuddy agreed, her voice distant. She lapsed into silence for a moment, then looked back up at House. "What's wrong with her?" she asked.

House sighed, tapping his cane on the floor.

"We don't know. Yet. We'll find out."

Cuddy nodded again, her brown eyes tired.

"She's one of our best surgeons," she whispered, her eyes falling away from House's again. "The day we operated on you, I wanted her on the team." House stiffened, shifting his weight a bit more off of his bad leg, but Cuddy didn't seem to notice. "But she was operating on a boy with a compound fracture of his clavicle."

House limped over and sat down next to her. Cuddy didn't meet his eyes, focusing instead on Reilly's supine figure on the bed. House glanced over as well, unconsciously tracking the in and out of Reilly's breathing.

They were interrupted by Foreman and Taub coming in to get the unconscious doctor for her angiogram and x-rays. House got up to help them shift her to a gurney, working with Foreman to hold her broken leg steady as Taub and an orderly moved her from the bed. As they were wheeling her out, Foreman caught Cuddy's eye and gave her a reassuring nod. House frowned, wondering how warranted the reassurance was; they had no idea what was wrong with Reilly and he had an uncomfortable feeling they were still far off their mark.

"Do you think she would have done a better job on my leg?" House asked bluntly when only he and Cuddy were left in the room. Cuddy was silent for a long moment, then looked up and shook her head helplessly.

"I don't know," she admitted. She glanced at the empty bed, then back at him. "Do you think you could do a better job on her?"

House tapped his cane against the floor and shook his head.

"No. We're doing our best. I'd be doing my best even if she'd been on my case."

Cuddy nodded slowly.

"Good to know," she said softly.

"You need to go home," House said. Cuddy raised her eyes, quickly this time.

"Not until we know-"

"We're doing everything we can," House said. "I'll call you before I call her damn sister if anything changes. You're not doing anyone any good here. She doesn't even know you're here."

"She's one of my doctors," Cuddy protested.

"And she still will be tomorrow. And next week. And next year. But we need to do our job, and you need to get some sleep. Consider it a medical order."

Something of the old Cuddy returned to her face and her lips twitched in what was almost a wry smile.

"You're not my doctor," she pointed out.

"Consider it free medical advice, then," House said. He tapped the end of his cane against the toe of his shoe. "Go home."

Cuddy gave him a rueful look.

"I'll go when you get the results from the angiogram and the x-rays."

House nodded curtly, then pushed himself to his feet, grimacing slightly.

"We'll let you know," he said. Cuddy gave another vague wave and he limped out, fishing some Vicodin from his pocket and swallowing two of them dry.

* * *

House sank down in his chair again, staring blankly at the wall, lips pursed in thought. Kutner was in the other room, poring over Reilly's old medical records, and Taub and Foreman were still running tests. He picked up his cane, tapping the handle absently against his chin, then stood, pacing the office slowly before stopping in front of the door, staring into the office where Kutner was working. He let his eyes wander to the white boards. On one of them were their failed hypothesis and the other was his time line, which Kutner had added to, mostly information from Reilly's past, none of it appearing very relevant.

_What are you trying to tell us, Sarah Reilly?_ he thought, tapping cane absently against the floor again. There was her car accident, ancient history and useless information now, and a few other things, a vaccination for meningitis at eighteen, a preventative measure when she started university. Hepatitis vaccinations in her mid-twenties in preparation for a trip to Mexico. House had set Hadley to test for any tropical viruses Taub could think of. There was nothing else of note until that morning, when she'd been shot.

House paused, regarding the time line again carefully. Kutner's writing was neater than his own, and he ignored it, concentrating on his scrawled words: "shot in bank robbery" and "out in ambulance". He knew it wasn't the local they'd given her at the hospital, nor a result of the surgery.

He stopped then, drawing himself up straighter unconsciously, then cursed under his breath.

House pushed open the door and strode into the outer office, Kutner looking up in surprise.

"That's all useless," House said, limping as fast as he could to the white board. "It wasn't any of this stuff. It wasn't the gun shot."

"What?" Kutner asked. "We know that."

"The answer's here," House said, jabbing his cane at the board. "We're just too used to seeing it. It isn't an answer to us, because it happens every day."

"What are you talking about?" Kutner asked, but House ignored him, pulling out his phone and dialing Foreman's number. When the other doctor answered, House put the phone on speaker and tossed it on the table.

"Where are you?" he demanded.

"Just finishing up with the angio–" Foreman started.

"Forget it. It's none of that. Get back up here."

"What-" Foreman started but House hung up on him and dialed Hadley, ordering her to return as well.

"What is it?"

"Wait," House said. "I don't want to waste my breath repeating myself."

A few minutes later, the other doctors arrived, looking puzzled and annoyed.

"House, what's going on?" Foreman demanded.

"It isn't anything we've tested for. Look!" House jabbed his cane at the board, nearly covering the word "ambulance".

"Uh, yeah, she was brought here in an ambulance," Kutner said. "But we already ruled out what they gave her."

"No, we ruled out complications from the morphine. That's not all they gave her. Foreman, I want you to test the carbon dioxide levels in her blood. In fact, test all the gas levels."

Foreman blinked, uncrossing his arms in surprise.

"You think she has hypercapnia?" he asked.

"Yep. Taub, find out what ambulance company brought her in and get them to check their oh-two tanks. Foreman, when you find out she has hypercapnia, intubate her and pump her full of as much oxygen as she can handle. Maybe more. Thirteen and Kutner, go with Foreman. Check the oh-two she's on now, too. Now! We have to get it out of her system fast!"

The doctors stood up without questioning and hurried out. House waited until they'd left and then sank down in a chair, closing his eyes and resting his fingers against his forehead momentarily. How far was it from Edison to Princeton? How long would it take in an ambulance? How much excess carbon dioxide had she inhaled?

He looked up again, shaking his head. Reilly had at least been recovering since they took her off the oxygen they'd given her in the ambulance. He doubted that the hospital's oxygen was contaminated as well, but he wanted to make sure.

It explained everything, the fact that she'd lost consciousness part way to the hospital, the fact that she could breathe on her own, that her pulse was strong, but that she was responding to nothing.

But brain damage. She'd already recovered from one brain injury – could she recover from this? Who was the Reilly who would wake up? He put his cane aside and rubbed his eyes, wondering when the last time he ate was. House took a deep breath and let it out slowly, tapping his good foot against the floor. He wasn't relishing telling Cuddy about this – the idea that she might lose one of her doctors wasn't a pleasant one. House looked up at the white board again. How many other people had been in that ambulance? Using that oxygen? He rubbed his eyes again, then leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. It was pitch dark outside now and when he check his watch, it was well after nine.

What time had Reilly come in? House pulled her file over to him. Just after eleven-thirty in the morning.

It had been too long since he'd eaten. Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet and headed to the nearest vending machine. In the hallway, he noticed the soft strains of Christmas music and grimaced. He wondered if Cuddy had been responsible for that.

House bought a bag of chips and then wandered back down to Reilly's office, which was locked again. He tried the door without success, then sat down in a chair in the hall, pulling open the bag and eating a very unsatisfactory dinner. When he was finished, he crumpled the bag in his hand and twisted to see her office door again. The lack of light inside of the office highlighted her name and department and House stared at it, wondering if he'd inadvertently lied to Cuddy earlier. Would Reilly still be a doctor when this was all over?

His phone distracted him and he pulled it out.

"Yeah," he said.

"You were right," Foreman said. "We have her on oxygen back in her room. It's just a matter of time now."

House nodded to himself.

"Good. See you upstairs."

He limped back to the office and settled into a chair, waiting until his doctors returned. Foreman came in and slid the test results across the table. House pulled them toward him and managed to repress his relief. Reilly's inhalation of carbon dioxide had been relatively mild, considering she'd been supplied by the same oxygen tank for an hour. House nodded, looking up from the results.

"We won't know anything until she wakes up," Foreman cautioned.

"I know," House replied.

"But we've got her intubated and it should push the carbon dioxide out quickly. She'll probably wake up tonight."

"Well, thankfully her sister has gone home."

Foreman actually smirked, his eyes twinkling for a moment.

"If she has to wake up in a hospital, it may as well be the least unpleasant experience possible," he agreed.

"I thought you'd come rushing to the sister's defense," House commented.

"_You_ didn't spend half an hour with her," Foreman replied.

"Good point. Five minutes was plenty. Go home. There's nothing else any of you can do."

"What about you?" Hadley asked.

"Waiting for Kutner's report. Go. We already have one doctor unconscious and useless. I don't need my team imitating her."

Hadley and Taub nodded, slipping out, but Foreman lingered for a moment.

"Make sure you get some sleep tonight, too," he said.

"There's only one doctor taking medical orders tonight, and it's not me. Go home, Foreman. I'll see you in the morning."

Foreman looked as if he was going to say something else, but gave a small, wry smile and shook his head before leaving the office, shutting the door gently behind him. House waited until he was sure the other man had really left and wasn't coming back to check on him before getting up, shutting off the lights, and locking the door behind him.


	4. The Return of Sarah Reilly

The silence was actually welcome. It was relaxing to have a colleague who wasn't nattering at him, or demanding information, or suggesting to him that he needed drug rehab. House sat in one of the chairs in Reilly's private room, watching her thoughtfully. Some well-meaning nurse had unbraided and brushed her hair, so it lay scattered about her head on the pillow. She had no grey hairs yet, House noticed, but she didn't seem the type to dye her hair out of vanity. A woman who wore her hair in the same type of braid every day probably wasn't overly concerned with its colour.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of her heartbeat as the machine tracked it, then made himself go past that and listen to her breathing. She was still on a ventilator, but she'd been breathing fine before that, and her inhalations and exhalations were still deep and regular. House nodded to himself and opened his eyes again a moment before a quiet knock on the door interrupted the companionable silence he thought he and Reilly had achieved.

Wilson stuck his head in and seemed surprised to see House in the room.

"How is she?" he whispered.

"Won't know until she wakes up," House replied as Wilson eased the door shut behind him.

"How did it happen?" Wilson asked.

"Contaminated oh-two tank in the ambulance. The ambulance company was able to trace it back to their supplier. I smell a big, juicy lawsuit. What're you doing here?"

"I wanted to see how she was doing, and I was looking for Cuddy."

"Who's next on your doctor conquest list?" House asked. "Cuddy or Reilly?"

Wilson rolled his eyes.

"That's right, House, concern for a colleague means I want to sleep with her, and needing to talk to my boss also means I want to sleep with _her_."

House shrugged.

"Why not? They're both hot."

Wilson covered his eyes.

"Reilly's _right there_," he hissed.

"And she's unconscious," House replied "She can't hear us."

"As far as you know," Wilson muttered.

"Unconscious people can't process conversations. Anyone who says otherwise is peddling crap."

"Whatever," Wilson sighed. "I need to ask Cuddy a question about one of my patients – and don't ask, because I'm not giving you any info."

"I sent her home," House said. "So that, tomorrow, when you ask her your question, she won't be a brainless, gibbering moron."

Wilson rolled his eyes again.

"How kind of you," he muttered under his breath. "You sent your team home. Why are you still here?"

House nodded at the recumbent figure on the bed.

"Have a patient who's going to wake up sometime tonight."

"So? There are nurses for that."

House shot Wilson a quick, sharp glare.

"I'm staying because I get it, Wilson. I _know_ what it's like to wake up not where you were and not _how_ you were."

"Her leg–"

"Oh, her damn leg will be fine," House snapped. "But her brain might not be. She went to do something run-of-the-mill and routine and now everything's different. Who else here understands that?"

Wilson looked taken aback for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"Good point," he said softly. "See you tomorrow."

House nodded curtly and Wilson ducked out again, the door latching quietly behind him. House waited a moment, then let out an irritated sigh, pushing himself to his feet and pacing slowly past the foot of the bed for a few minutes before sitting down again and helping himself to some of the now-cold meal that had inexplicably been delivered to Reilly's room. He left the containers of jell-o and pudding but tried the juice, the made a face and tried not to spit it out. Maybe this was why the hospital had so many damn patients; they were secretly poisoning them.

He settled back into his chair, hooking his cane over the arm and waited. Every half hour, his watch marked the passage of time with a high-pitched beeping. At midnight, the sound jerked him out of a doze and he sat up, grimacing at the kink in his back and the pain in his leg. House shook two Vicodin from his bottle and swallowed them dry, unwilling to risk the noxious juice again. As he leaned his head back, he noticed Reilly's right hand twitch. She tapped each finger against the tip of her right thumb and House tilted his head slightly, watching the movement curiously.

Then he nodded to himself; at least he could rule out nerve damage to her right hand. The worst possibility, he considered, was that Reilly lose control of her hands. And, of course, the mental capabilities to do surgery.

She stirred again, only slightly, her eyelids flickering.

"I have a story to tell you, Doctor Reilly," he said, watching her carefully. Nothing changed, but now he believed she could hear him. Now she was regaining consciousness. "You should like it. It involves you. Unless you're one of those self-effacing people who hates the center of attention. But let's assume for the moment that's not the case.

"My name is Greg House. I'm a doctor. Your doctor, as a matter of fact. You're in Princeton-Plainsboro, which is exactly where you wanted to be, but you probably won't remember that, or why, when you actually open your eyes. Yesterday morning you decided to go to the bank. Probably would have been a better idea to use the ATM but you went inside and so did a nut case with a gun and a need for some quick cash.

"I heard the cops shot him, but I can't tell you anything else, because you're my patient, not him. He shot you, before the cops turned him into Swiss cheese. In the leg. Which, by the way, will be fine. You have a broken fibula and some muscle damage, but lucky you, you're a doctor and have access to some of the best therapists.

"You see, the problem, the real reason you're here is that some moron somewhere in Atlanta shipped out contaminated oxygen tanks. One of them ended up in an ambulance in Edison. By an amazing coincidence, so did you. You were conscious when the paramedics picked you up, but you were still in shock, so the medics did exactly what they were supposed to and gave you oxygen.

"Of course, they had no way of knowing it wasn't oxygen, or not just oxygen. You asked to be brought here, which is further than say, New Brunswick, but hey, you work here, and you were guaranteed the best treatment here. That meant more time on the oxygen, though, which meant you were inhaling carbon dioxide in higher amounts than you should. So you lost consciousness.

"Now, in a way, it's good that they brought you here, because I'm here. If you'd been to New Brunswick, you might not have had hypercapnia, but some other sucker would have been contaminated in that ambulance and they probably _wouldn't_ have sent them here. I'm arrogant enough to admit I'm arrogant and to tell you that almost no other doctor in the state would have diagnosed you, or diagnosed you on time.

"Your hypercapnia was mild enough that I think you'll be fine, but I won't actually know that until you wake up." House stood up and limped across the room to the bed, leaning down. "And I'm pretty sure you _are_ awake now, so you might as well open your eyes and prove me right."

For a moment, nothing happened, then Reilly blinked her eyes open and House found himself being evaluated by a pair of bright hazel eyes in which he was certain he saw a glimmer of amusement, as well as a tinge of morphine glaze, which they'd re-administered after diagnosing her hypercapnia. He nodded at her.

"Welcome back. I'm going to get you off the tube, so relax and hold still. Can you do that?"

Reilly blinked her ascent and House withdrew the oxygen tube, keeping an eye on the grimace on her face. When he was finished, he poured Reilly a cup of water from the bottle that had been included with her unnecessary dinner and held it up. She coughed, trying to clear her throat, then raised her right hand to grip it.

"Both hands," House instructed, and to his relief, she raised her left hand effortlessly to grasp the cup. He steadied it for her while she drank, then moved it aside. As he did so, he noticed that her hands were both shaking. He turned his attention away quickly, but Reilly was a doctor and had caught it, too.

"Did you have shaky hands before?" he asked.

"No," she whispered, her voice still somewhat hoarse and husky.

"It might be temporary, it might not. Most of the surgeons I know have shaky hands when they aren't concentrating."

Reilly nodded.

"How are you feeling?" House asked.

"Leg hurts a bit," she said, as if she were commenting on the weather. "Was I really shot?"

"Yeah."

"I don't remember that."

"You might never," House said. "Post-traumatic amnesia. Count your blessings."

She turned his head to meet his eyes.

"What a strange thing to say."

"Wiggle the toes on your left foot," House ordered, ignoring her, flipping the sheet from her left foot. Reilly obeyed. "Good. Now lift that leg." She did so with some stiffness, which he counted as normal after being unconscious for so long. He carefully grasped the toes of her right foot, pinching slightly.

"Feel that?"

"Yes," Reilly replied.

"Shake your head side-to-side. Now tilt it side-to-side. Stick out your tongue. Wiggle your nose. Count backwards from ten."

She complied with each instruction and House nodded his approval.

"A bunch of neurologists want to get their hands on you tomorrow, but looks like you might be in the clear."

"Well if my doctor says so," Reilly commented with a twitch of her lips. "I'm hungry, can I eat something?"

"You're in luck: I saved you some red-flavoured jell-o and some brown pudding. Don't try and sit up! You're not allowed to move that leg. Strict orders from Doctor Carmichael."

"Far be it for me for me to counter Don's orders," Reilly said. House handed her more water, noting that her voice was raspy, probably a result of the oxygen tube. She took it and managed to hold it steady enough despite her shaking hands to drink out of it. House pulled the top off the jell-o and took the cup back from her. Reilly reached for the food, but House shook his head.

"Jell-o and shaky hands, not such a good combination." He perched himself carefully on the edge of the bed, grimacing at the flash of pain in his leg. "Open up."

She opened her mouth obediently and House gave her spoonful of jell-o. Reilly swallowed, wincing slightly.

"If you're not careful, you'll have to double as a nurse," she warned.

"Maybe I can trade it for my time in the clinic."

He fed Reilly another spoonful and she looked around again the room as she swallowed.

"Who sent the flowers?" she asked, twitching her right hand in the direction of the vases that were set up on the other side of the bed.

"One from the surgery department, one from Cuddy, one from some guy named Josh. Your file says you don't have kids, and I found a picture in your office labeled you and Josh. Who is he?"

"My nephew."

"What, the annoying sister's kid?"

To House's surprise, Reilly gave a startled laugh.

"What?" he asked.

"That is a very, very tame adjective for my sister," she said, then coughed as a result of her sudden laughter and her irritated throat.

"You're not defensive about me insulting a family member," House observed, somewhat intrigued.

"Have you _met_ Emily?" Reilly asked, gesturing for the water. He handed it back and nodded.

"She came here."

"What? Really? God, I'm so sorry. That must have been unpleasant. Did you tell you how bad the drive is from Philly? Was she upset that I didn't die?"

"You'd have to ask Doctor Foreman, he dealt with her more. Or Cuddy." House leaned forward slightly. "Most people don't take well to having their family members bad mouthed."

"Most people don't have my sister," Reilly replied. "You called her annoying. I can think of so many better words."

"Such as?"

"Bitchy. Mean-spirited. Spiteful. Horrible."

"Those are all very appropriate," House agreed. "But you get along with your nephew."

"He's pretty normal," Reilly said. "By the simple expedient of having been raised by his father. We're pretty close."

"Let me guess," House said. "You're forty-five, unmarried, and always wanted children, but never had any, because your career got in the way, so your nephew acts as a surrogate child, and since his mother is – in your words – bitchy, you were able to step in and fill the gaping void in his life."

Reilly leaned forward as much as House would let her, one corner of her lips pulling upwards.

"It's a good thing you aren't a psychiatrist," she said. "I divorced my husband five years ago because he's a workaholic, and I never wanted children. I never saw much Josh until he became a teenager and was able to decide who he wanted in his life."

"You're a surgeon and you're calling your husband a workaholic?" House demanded.

"_Ex_-husband. And yes. Think about what that must mean, then, for me to make that judgment," she said, then leaned back and grimaced, her right hand moving to rest on her right thigh.

"Leg hurt?"

Reilly nodded.

"You need more morphine."

"If you give me more morphine, I won't be able to think," she replied in a whisper, then took another sip of her water. House took the cup and refilled it for her.

"You don't need to think; you need to sleep."

"If I can't think straight, how can I hold my own against you?" she asked.

House smirked.

"We'll continue this conversation later," he said, standing and grasping his cane so that he could leave to find a nurse and get his patient some more painkillers. "Next time, the jell-o will be on me. I make a killer jell-o. _Way_ better than our cafeteria."


	5. Breathe

Wilson opened the door to House's office and stuck his head in to make sure House was there before inviting himself in.

"How is she?" he asked without preamble.

"Good enough to go home, according to the neurologists," House replied. "Released her this afternoon."

Wilson raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"That was quick," he commented.

House picked up his ball and tossed it in the air, catching it easily.

"A broken leg and some localized muscle damage isn't enough to keep someone here for more than a couple of days," he replied.

"But brain damage is," Wilson pointed out.

House tossed and caught the ball again, then lobbed it at Wilson, who caught it easily, having been half-expecting that since he walked in.

"Yep, but she's got a mostly clean bill."

"Mostly?"

"Apparently the shaky hands might be permanent."

Wilson tossed the ball back and House caught it and shoved it in a drawer.

"She's lucky," Wilson said.

"Twice lucky," House replied. "How many people get off that lightly?"

"She was shot, House. I wouldn't call that getting off lightly."

"You wouldn't know it," House said. "With the way she reacted."

"What do you mean? How did she react?"

"That's just it. She didn't. She was the most pulled-together post-op I've ever seen, and she was the calmest person I've ever seen that neurology department. It completely blows my theory that they do illegal LSD experiments on people in there."

"This isn't the air force," Wilson said.

"It'd be less noticeable in a hospital. Especially a hospital in New Jersey."

"Riiight," Wilson replied. "Anyway, her mental state isn't that abnormal."

"She was shot."

"And you told me she doesn't remember it. She'll deal with it in her own way. Or not. Maybe she just doesn't want to deal with it in front of her colleagues." He shrugged. "That does seem normal."

"It was more than that," House argued. "It was like being in the hospital didn't bother her."

"House, Reilly's in the hospital almost every day."

"On the other side of the bed," House countered.

Wilson rolled his eyes again.

"She doesn't have any obligation to react the way you want her to. Did you have an emotional break down when you woke up from surgery?"

"She's not me."

"No," Wilson agreed. "She's not. But just because she's not you doesn't mean she's going to cry or curl up in a ball and sit rocking in a corner. She's a surgeon, House; she's seen a lot. She wouldn't be a good doctor if she hadn't developed some kind of resilience."

"And she does have the bitchy sister," House said.

"Exactly. She probably got used to dealing with worse while growing up. Being shot is probably incidental compared to her sister's influence."

House grunted.

"Yeah, right," he said. Wilson shook his head.

"Stop obsessing about it. You saved her life, and she's going to recover. How long before she's back here?"

"Carmichael's giving her a month off the leg, then half weight for two weeks. Cuddy said she can come back to the clinic until she's well enough to start in the OR again."

Wilson smiled.

"That is good news," he said. House nodded vaguely, somewhat distracted. "Hey. I'm free this evening; want to get some dinner?"

"Not tonight," House said, reaching for his cane and standing up, pressing all of his weight into his left leg and the cane.

"What, you have paper work to do?"

"Always, but that's why I have fellows. I have to spend the evening convincing Thirteen to take over my Christmas shift in the clinic."

"You'd ask a dying woman to work Christmas for you?"

"We're all dying. Some of us just faster than others."

"Do you need the day off? Do you have plans?"

"Nope."

"Then why do you care?"

"It's Christmas," House replied. "And I have seniority."

Wilson sighed, shaking his head in resignation.

"You're a grinch."

"No, I'm much better looking. Good night!"

Wilson shook his head again, giving House a wry, disapproving glare before leaving the office. House limped into his outer office, which was empty, just as he'd expected, despite what he'd just told Wilson about hassling Hadley. Now that they had no patient, his staff had left for the day at their regular hour. He stood in the silence for a moment, glad that the horrible, tinny Christmas music wasn't piped into his space, then made his way across the room.

Reilly's time line and House's list of possible diagnoses were still on the white boards. He picked up an eraser and rubbed out the black marker, feeling strange as he did so, as if he were also erasing Reilly from their lives.

"Don't be an idiot," he muttered to himself, putting the eraser back and limping back to his office, shutting off the outer office lights on his way. House sat back down at his desk, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against his cane.

It bugged him when Wilson didn't listen. Reilly had gone home fine, and that bothered House. What kind of person got shot and then poisoned and didn't react? She has been too pulled together. Even he hadn't been that good when he'd woken up from his leg operation ten years ago. Admittedly, he'd insisted on not having surgery, and had his wishes counteracted when he was unconscious. Reilly had been loaded into the ambulance knowing she'd need surgery.

But not knowing she'd need a tube shoved down her throat to force excess carbon dioxide from her lungs, nor that she'd spend what must have been a fun-filled day in neurology, being tested. House knew, from Reilly herself, that the tests weren't over, either.

And she'd been shot. It came back to that. Post-traumatic amnesia or not, she'd been shot.

He stood up again, limping to his file cabinet without bothering with his cane and pulled open the third drawer, flipping through the files until he found Reilly's. House tossed it onto his desk, opened it, and sifted through the papers until he found what he was looking for.

Good old predictable Kutner. The younger man had written Reilly's address down on a Post-it note and had conscientiously returned it to her file. For a doctor, he had surprisingly legible writing.

House fired up his computer and mapped in the address from the hospital. She lived in Edison, which would explain why she'd been banking there. He checked his watch; at this time of day, the New Jersey traffic should have thinned enough that it would take only about half an hour to get there, barring any stops he had to make.

He scrawled the directions on the back of the Post-it, then shoved it in his pocket, reaching for his motorcycle helmet.

* * *

The house was a small one, set back from the street, the front yard nearly obscured by birch and spruce trees. An inlaid stone path led between two of the larger trees to the front door. House parked his bike between two cars on the street and made his way through the darkness toward the door. The large window to the left of the front door was illuminated behind thick drapes; the smaller window to the right was not. The porch light wasn't on, but House wasn't surprised. It wasn't as if she were expecting him.

He climbed the stairs carefully and rapped on the door with his cane. A pair of polished numbers bolted to the dark stained wood declared to him that her house number was 40; the gold glinted dully in whatever light it could catch from the street lights.

"Coming!" he heard from inside and waited, whistling quietly to himself. He could hear someone moving around inside, albeit slowly. Reilly wasn't used to getting about on crutches yet. The front light flickered on and House winced slightly, his eyes adjusting before the door pulled back.

Reilly's surprise showed on her face.

"Greg!" she exclaimed.

House hesitated for half a moment; he couldn't remember the last time anyone but his mother or Stacy had called him that. He decided to let it pass, after all, she didn't know him that well.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Making a house call. No pun intended. I brought pizza." He held up the box as proof.

Reilly gave a chuckle.

"I thought the rain check was for jell-o."

"This is much more medicinal."

"If you wanted to bring me something medicinal, you should have brought marijuana."

"Oooh," House said. "I like the way you think."

Reilly moved back somewhat on her crutches, gesturing for him to come in. As House stepped in, he evaluated her quickly: her colour was good, her eyes were clear, and she wasn't breathing abnormally beyond some extra effort from the crutches.

"What kind is it?" she asked, nodding at the pizza.

"Your favourite."

Reilly raised an eyebrow as House set the pizza down on the entry table, a low mahogany table that looked like the main repository for Reilly's mail. He shut the door behind him, then pulled off his helmet and jacket. Reilly gestured to the closet to his left and House hung his coat there, putting the helmet on the floor.

"And how do you know my favourite? Wait, let me guess. You figured it out by simple expedient of getting your favourite kind and assuming it'd be mine as well."

"It's always worked so far," House replied. Reilly rolled her eyes.

"Come in. Ignore the mess your doctors made."

"Ha!" House said. "I made Kutner promise not to mess anything up."

Reilly grinned and shook her head.

"You'll have to serve yourself. I'm not playing hostess right now."

"Between the two of us, we only have two good legs."

"And only one free hand, which belongs to you," Reilly pointed out.

House picked up the box again and followed Reilly into her living room. It was small but cozy with dark blue drapes covering the window, an unlit fireplace, and currently one floor lamp casting soft yellow light. Beside the fireplace was an entertainment center, although the thin layer of dust on the TV screen told House it wasn't often used. The hardwood floor was covered in the center of the room by a thick light brown area rug, bordered with dark green knotted vines and leaves. On the rug sat a couch, a few shades darker than the brown of the rug, a matching arm chair angle beside it, and a white sling-back chair opposite that. In the middle was a low, square coffee table, and nestled in between that and the couch was the ottoman for the sling back chair, with a thick pillow on it.

"Plates are in the cupboard to the right of the stove," Reilly said. "There's some beer in the fridge if you want some."

House put the pizza down on the coffee table and limped into kitchen, grabbing two plates and a beer.

"Want anything to drink?" he called over his shoulder.

"I'm fine!" Reilly called back. He balanced the beer on the plates and limped back into the living room.

"How's the leg?" he asked, setting down the plates. Reilly had settled herself back onto the couch, her leg propped on the ottoman.

"It hurts," she said plainly.

"I have Vicodin."

Reilly rolled her eyes.

"They gave me codeine at the hospital. I took some ibuprofen."

"Instead of codeine?"

"I hate codeine."

"You're an idiot."

"When it comes to taking medical advice, you could substitute the word 'idiot' for the word 'doctor' and get the same result."

House pondered that a for a moment.

"Good point," he said, then flipped open the pizza box and put two pieces on a plate that he handed to Reilly.

"Meat lovers. Somehow, I'm not surprised."

"You're not a meat hater, are you?"

"Nope," she replied, then took a bite of the pizza. "It probably says something about your psychology that this is your favourite."

"Like what? Man the Hunter? I feel the need to kill and conquer?"

She shrugged and chuckled.

"Maybe."

"Good thing you're not a psychiatrist either."

"I _knew_ there was a reason I became a surgeon. All right, time to tell me why you're really here."

"I said it was a house call."

"Doctors don't make house calls anymore. Especially ones who work in hospitals."

House shrugged, helping himself to another slice of pizza.

"Consider this a special exception."

"Why?"

"Because you were shot."

"Yeah, I know. I was there."

"You don't remember it."

"But I was still there."

House leaned back, rubbing his bag leg absently.

"As your former doctor, I was concerned that you needed to eat well. And I assume that your sister isn't going to come and be supportive and nurturing."

Reilly raised an eyebrow.

"So you're doing that for her?"

"God, no. I'm not the nurturing type. Honestly, I thought you might want some company."

"I appreciate that," Reilly said sincerely.

"I had a bet with Cuddy: you were faking the coma to get out of spending Christmas with your sister."

Reilly laughed, covering her mouth, a half-eaten slice of pizza suspended in one hand.

"Oh my god, no. I never spend Christmas with Emily. I'd rather hang myself. I was on the duty roster in surgery, actually. I'm not what you'd call religious, so I normally just work."

"You volunteer for Christmas?"

"Yep."

"You're insane."

"The term is brain damaged."

"Right! That's another thing – tell me how a person survives two brain injuries with no serious effects."

"I'd call the possibility of not returning to surgery serious," Reilly countered. "And I spent a lot of time as a teenager having tests to make sure my hypothalamus wasn't going to give out on me. Last time, I was lucky. This time, I had a good doctor. And I still have this." She held up her free hand, which was trembling. "And I get to spend more fun-filled time with neurologists over the next couple of months."

"You'll be back before you know it," House said.

"I damn well better be. Depends on how fast the leg heals."

"It really doesn't bother you that you were shot?"

"Do you want it to?" Reilly asked. "Yes, it bothers me. But I don't remember it. Is that why you came here, really? To make sure I'm all right."

"Yep," House admitted shortly. "I'm your doctor."

"Not anymore," Reilly pointed out. She stiffened suddenly, then grimaced, holding up a hand when House shifted toward her. "Muscle spasm, that's all."

"You should be taking your codeine," he snapped.

"Wouldn't help for this," Reilly said through gritted teeth. "Make yourself useful and get me some water."

House pushed himself to his feet and limped into the kitchen, rummaging for a glass. He kept his ears open for sounds from the living room and he had just shut off the faucet when he heard it. Grabbing his cane, he limped back as quickly as he could, setting the glass down on the coffee table beside the nearly empty pizza box.

Reilly had covered her face with her arms and was shaking – not just her hands, but her entire body. House found it disturbing that she was doing so silently, and sat down beside her, wrapping his arms around her. Reilly stiffened as he did so, her body jerking, and she gave a strangled gasp in which House could hear tears.

"Sarah," he said. "Sarah, listen to me. You're safe. You're at home. Breathe. You have to breathe. If you hyperventilate, you'll give yourself hypercapnia again."

She leaned her head back, her eyes screwed shut, her face scrunched up, but she sucked in a deep, ragged breath. Tears poured from her eyes, tracking red streaks down her cheeks. House tightened his hold, alarmed at how much she was shaking. This was precisely the reaction he'd anticipated. She hadn't panicked when she was shot, nor when she woke up, and he knew Wilson had been wrong. No one was all right with that kind of trauma.

Reilly raised her hands, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. She was breathing hard and raggedly, but not sobbing. House suspected it was taking all of her will not to. He wished she would; it was probably better to let the panic run its course, but she was a doctor and he suspected there was no telling her anything at this point. If she could even hear him. House was more thankful for her post-traumatic amnesia. The last thing she needed was to remember the actual event.

He kept a sharp, experienced eye on her broken leg, putting a hand on her thigh and pressing down when Reilly tried to bend that leg. Whatever part of her brain was still, and always, in doctor mode responded and she straightened it again, probably without even knowing she was doing so.

She sobbed suddenly, just once, and House glanced up to see her open her eyes briefly and stare blankly at the ceiling. Then Reilly screwed eyes shut again, pressing her hands over her face. She curled in on herself suddenly, and House adjusted his position, hanging on tightly because there was nothing else he do.

* * *

He awoke in the middle of the night and felt a moment's disorientation as he tried to place himself. Then he realized where he was and looked around. A single lamp was still lighting the room and House glanced at it; it was close enough for him to lean over and reach. He left it on for the time being, glancing at Reilly, who was curled up as much as she could be with her left leg still extended and propped on the foot stool. Her hands were balled into fists and tucked under her chin, and her cheeks still showed signs of splotchiness from the tears, but she was deeply asleep, her breathing regular and slow.

_Hmm,_ he thought, raising an eyebrow.

House grimaced at the pain in his leg and pulled his Vicodin from his pocket, managing to open it without shifting enough to wake the other doctor. He downed two of them, then adjusted his position slightly to be more comfortable.

There were two blankets folded neatly over the back of the couch. He grabbed them and tossed one over Reilly, making sure not to jostle her broken leg. He spread the other over himself, then leaned over enough to flick the lamp off. Darkness descended and House let his eyes adjust as the light from the street filtered in through the edges of the dark, heavy drapes. It did little but outline the stark shapes of the furniture.

_Hmm_, House thought again, then closed his eyes, settling back down comfortably. He listened to Reilly's breathing in the darkness until his own began to mirror the deep, slow rhythm and he fell back to sleep.


End file.
